


Lookin' Right Through Me

by cannibalisticshadows



Category: Megamind (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, F/M, Ghosts, Inspired by Music, Murder Mystery, Subways, bodily mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 03:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalisticshadows/pseuds/cannibalisticshadows
Summary: For once, he appreciates his sixth sense.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't stop myself from writing this.
> 
> This fic is inspired by a song.
> 
> "Heebie Jeebies" by Unwanted Houseguest.
> 
> The music video depicts a headless girl which, in my opinion, looked a hella lot like a real-life Roxanne. And the song is sung by a blue guy wearing black, sooooo. 
> 
> Just watch the music video (note that it does have flashes of blood). Creepy but super catchy. It was on repeat while writing this XD.

He wasn’t quite sure why he kept coming back to Metro City’s downtown canal. 

The underground transit was a slum; crude graffiti, trash, dubious stains, poorly lit walkways, suspicious personas, the like. If he was still enough to not draw attention, he could count illegal activities down here like he was counting sheep. 

Yet, this wasn’t why he was drawn to this place. It was because of a decapitated girl. 

Megamind had been able to see the dead for nearly his entire life. Maybe it was an alien thing, or maybe it was some flux in his brain. Or maybe he was just crazy. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s been accused of being insane up to his eyeballs. No one wants to hang out with Cole Sear.

But it was—very convincing, the things he could see that no one else could. Sometimes it frightend him. Sometimes he felt like he knew a secret people would kill to know.

Minion, bless him, tried to understand. Megamind knew the fish tried with all his might. But—this was not something someone could just ‘understand’. Though his one and only friend was older than him, Minion couldn't recall anyone on their long lost planet being able to see ghosts. For the longest time Minion thought he was mistaken, but--

When a pedestrian passed him in the street with a slit open throat, pale blue skin and dead eyes, it was rather obvious. 

When the kind nurse tried to help him out at the prison when Metro Man’d done a number on him, he knew because she was missing her eyes.

When the employee at the junkyard waved at him with his whole arm in the other hand he… well. He knew. 

The dead, he discovered, tended to come back in some non-physical form when they had gone through a particularly gruesome death—not necessarily murder. The second reason was the overused cliché: unfinished business. Yet surprisingly people were ready to just die for good after they kick the bucket. Its the _death_ that really seals the deal if they stay or go. 

A year ago he’d gone through an awfully failed attempt to defeat his nemesis. Terrible, as he’d been sleep-deprived at up to his ears in problems with the children he had to babysit that “ran” the underworld in his absence. Honestly. Did he have to do everything around here? Metrocity really was a dump. If anything, Metro Man hadn’t fixed problems that really mattered. Megamind had the city’s shit to clean up behind news cameras. 

But, during this terribly failed ploy, miraculously he managed to slip away before behind hauled back to prison. _Good. Another day he could avoid Warden’s disapproving glower kept the depression away. More or less. (Not really but it made him feel better to not see the old man {that’s a lie too})._ Once he was away, he managed to stumble down into the canal.

He hated it there. It smelled. It gave him—what’s the word—He Bee Geebies? 

But, using his de-gun he managed to scare away the mid-night stragglers that were lurking down here, and managed to get a whole cart without anything to bother him.

Sighing, he crumbled into a dirty yellow seat. It had been such a bad day…

Out of the corner of his eye, under the shuttering fluorescent light of the train car, was a woman. Instantly he was on his toes, upright and growling with his gun raised.

But.

_But._

He sat back down with a blank face.

This woman sat with pale blue eyes that matched her equally pale blue skin, seemingly soulless as she stared ahead at nothing in particular. She was a small thing, smaller than him, and wore clothes much too thin for this winter weather. A white tank top, no bra, rugged jeans. She was stained all over in dark splatters, but she kept her hands busy by clutching her own head, fingers intertwined with her short, pixie-cut hair, the color of chestnut. Her neck looked like it was made of shredded meat.

Well, fuck.

Megamind wasn’t sure how to react at first. This wasn’t his first ghost. Some of the dead did respond to him, a few engaging in conversation like the one-armed guy at the junkyard. Other ghosts seemed to forget themselves entirely, staring at him as if he was speaking an ~~alien~~ foreign language. Sometimes, and he hated these sometimes, ghosts tended to be… far from Casper the Friendly Ghost. Quite the opposite.

This girl seemed to be between the first and last type of ghost. Lost. Desolate. Empty. 

He sniffed, and then let out a little warble of greeting. 

Unsurprisingly, she did nothing.

Once again, he attempted to speak to her, this time addressing her entirely. “You there! Miss, in the white top!”

This time she did look his way.

The girl seemed comically startled, for a moment, before her expression of shock fell to—

He thought she would wave at him, in case her voice was already gone. Some ghosts, if dead long enough, lost that ability. At least to him. But, when she moved—

Her hands came down, and so did her head. 

Like the headless horseman, or horsewoman, he held her head up in one hand by the hair, it swaying in the rickety cart. _Oh, well, I wonder how she died._

“Don’t lose your head, dearie, I’m just saying ‘ollo.”

She didn’t respond. 

“Do you speak?”

Again, nothing.

He huffed. “Anything at all?”

She just stared at him. And she continued to stare at him, as if trying to pick him apart with her glassy blues. This went on until the cart stopped closest to his Lair. A part of him hoped she would be one of those clingy ghosts, chasing to “haunt” him until he could find out enough about her to h— move her forward in her afterlife. Not help. No. He didn’t help people. He was evil. Not a saint. He didn’t help dead people go to “the other side”. Nope. Not him.

But she just watched him as he got up. He met her eyes, feeling disturbed as she continued to hold her cranium in her fist by the hair. 

He left the subway feeling… something. Once he got home he would look up on the deaths that had occurred down there. He didn't have to guess how she died. Fall off the walkway at the wrong time and splat. She had to be someone, too. He'd get a name eventually. She couldn't have been here long... not in that outfit. He tried to forget the little pebbles that were her stiff nipples through her tank. 

Unbeknownst to him at the time, this wouldn’t be the end of the headless girl.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention it's 2018?

When he can, he comes around at night. 

She’s there, like always, sitting in the same seat on the 6th train, sometimes with her head on her shoulders, other times holding it out like it’s a leaky grocery bag. 

She still wasn’t much of a talker, but—she _understood_ him. There’s that, at least.

A week after meeting the odd headless girl, he discovered her name not through the internet or Metrocity’s death detabase, but by accident.

It was in the morning, and his car needed an oil change, and according to Minion (more like ordered by Minion) he should take another form of travel. His hoverbike, however, was going through some fixes as well, so he was forced to walk or use the underground transit. So, wearing a cleverly evil disguise of a common thug with his watch, he awaited his train ride with hands stuffed in his pockets, working to be as unassuming as possible, when a curious site called his attention.

An older woman was standing by the walkway, a foot away from the tracks, as if waiting for a train. Though, he observed, she faced a iron column and laid out flowers along the floor.

He blinked owlishly. Naturally, he understood this human ritual to morn the deceased with foliage, but to his amazement, the woman looked suspiciously familiar. Ah, he suddenly remembered. This must be the maternal figure of the dead girl. To be honest he had briefly forgotten about her, with the hustle and bustle in the past week. 

At that moment, the very same ghost came up to her by sliding through the walls, fuzzy and fading into existence. His inner sense that said, “dead person!” went off inside of him, but he was used to the feeling. The girl had her head on her shoulders this time, literally, and approached the woman with a sad smile on her splattered face. He had forgotten how youthful she was. Such a shame. (Not like he cared, ha!) 

He heard the woman breath in shakily as she laid white lilies on the ground.

Curious, he glanced around for anyone else. Just them, and some guy on his phone, but he was too far in his own world to notice. Smirking, he twisted the face of his watch to adopt the persona of a seemingly normal young man in a brown blazer. 

Megamind approached the woman, sending a glance to her dead child, who hovered nearby, watching on. 

“Excuse me,” he said with false kindness. “I couldn’t help but notice—did you lose someone here?”

“Yes,” the woman choked up, whipping her tears. She looked at the train tracks. “My daughter, Roxanne. Roxanne Ritchi. Fell on the tracks before—“ She sobbed again, then seemed to pull herself together with a wobbly inhale.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“It’s not your fault, darling,” she said, shaking her head. “I should be stronger than this,” she laughed with no humor in her voice. “It’s been nearly sixteen years since today.”

He was about to let her continue, as she seemed to want to go on about her sorrows, but the his ride was coming up, clanking on the tracks. The woman flinched and walked away. “You’re very kind to talk to me,” she said, “but I—I have an appointment. I pray you have a good day, young man.”

She left. He turned to the girl—Roxanne Ritchi, she had a name now.

She didn’t meet his eyes, but as he stared at her long enough, she suddenly seemed to understand that he could see her. It made her squirm in her spot. But the train arrived, and he did have places to be, so he waved in her face—he laughed, seeing her back up with a look of shock. Laughing maliciously, he left her and got on his train. She didn’t follow.

~.~.~.~

Two days later, Megamind found himself unable to stop thinking about her. When curiosity got the best of him, he opened up a tap on his supercomputer and googled her name.

To his surprise he got a few results. 

_Roxanne Ritchi, age 23, a minor reporter working for KMCP 8 News, was killed on December 3rd, 2003, when she fell on the tracks on Metro City’s…_ it went on, some reports being short and to the point, while one or two cared to mention it took them a whole two hours before they could identify the body because the head had rolled away with the train. Gruesome death, yes. To Megamind, it said she just hung around this life because she had nothing better to do.

Though he felt drawn to this, and Metro Man could wait another day before his next big ploy, he decided for a midnight train ride. 

When the 6th train came up, the same train he’d “met” Roxanne on, he got on with a shake of his de-gun, sharing off the one middle-aged lady off. He huffed, sitting down in her spot because it was still warm. 

Not to long after, he saw Roxanne materialize on the other side of the car. She had her head on.

“Ollo, Miss Ritchi,” he crooned, approaching her with his hands behind his back, hunched over to intimidate her. “What brings you here at such a late hour?”

She gave him the same comic expression of surprise. Seconds before he would give up on getting her to talk, she said, in a ghostly voice, “You know who—what I am?”

“Yes. It’s hard not to when you’re constantly losing your head.”

Her eyebrows quirked upward, and he momentarily wondered if she was the type of ghost that was aware of her physical state. It appeared not to be so, as she continued to stare at him as if he was the one with a skull ready to drop any moment.

“Miss Ritchi,” he said, taking a seat beside her with all the dramatics he could muster, “why, may I ask, are you here?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Her mouth twisted up. “I… I’m not sure. What day is it? And who are you exactly?”

And that, somehow, led to him proudly introducing himself. She should know who he was, he thought glumly. He was already causing quite the ruckus in 2002. But that was sixteen years ago, and his game had changed since then. 

Still, though, she wasn’t all that talkative. Typical for a ghost, and for her age (since she died). But, he kept coming back, by night, to see her. Most nights she sat beside him as he rambled on about random things, offering small insights or pleased smiles, thought those he didn’t understand. He did his best to upset her in some way, but nothing seemed to work.

She would have made an excellent kidnappee. Too bad she was already dead.

Though, months later, he had grown accustomed to her, and it seemed she was just as accustomed to him most times. 

On occasion, though, she would enter what he liked to call “the ghost zone”. A state of being that he was (most of the time) unable to breach, or interfere with. That being said she would be unresponsive, behaving more like a TV ghost than his typically engrossing midnight companion. 

It didn’t scare him, when she got into that “ghost zone”. She just tended to ignore him, not haunt him. 

But one night things changed between them.

It was a Friday night, and he had just stepped onto the empty 6 car when it hit him.

She. She had hit him, not with a fist, but with her whole form.

Hissing, he grabbed onto a railing as images flashed before him. Oh, my, he thought briefly. She was definitely in the zone, as he put it, but now she was ready to show him what some ghosts like to show him often, or not at all.

Her death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically, a bunch of angst in the next chap, finished with sweet, sweet fluff and romance. should there be ghost smut?


End file.
